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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29934909">to be your cup of tea</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aalphard/pseuds/aalphard'>aalphard</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon compliant-ish, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Soulmate-Identifying Marks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:47:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,489</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29934909</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aalphard/pseuds/aalphard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>They play against Itachiyama, they play against Sakusa Kiyoomi and they laugh at the confused glances he sends the twins whenever they score, whenever they set and spike perfectly, whenever they bicker because <i>that set was sloppy</i> or <i>shuddup, you could’ve gotten that.</i> Atsumu feels that weird, sludgy and uncomfortably hot feeling spreading through his stomach when he sees them talking to each other post-match, when Sakusa laughs and his eyes crinkle, when Osamu laughs along with him. It looks right, he thinks, the two of them existing in perfect harmony, their laughs reverberating in perfect synchrony, in a way Atsumu could never hope to replicate. <i>Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Osamu’s soulmate and reason for Miya Atsumu’s unbecoming:</i> doesn’t it sound like a great title for his autobiography?</p>
</blockquote>or maybe if he wasn’t a miya the pain in his chest would’ve been easier to deal with.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>307</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>COMFY TIMES, SakuAtsuAngstWeek</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>to be your cup of tea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this fic was written for the sakuatsu angst week 2021 day 2 prompts: <b>soulmate au</b> || <b>unrequited love</b> || <b>"you love him. i can never be him."</b></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They’re not soulmates.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Apparently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their soulmate marks showed up on their wrist and chest respectively when they were sixteen. Golden and gray locks froze for what seemed like eternity as they stared at their marks in disbelief, their eyes wide and mouths hanging open in surprise. Osamu’s is a light pink scarred into his flesh right beneath his palm, the kanji barely readable in the dim-lit room although screaming at them that </span>
  <em>
    <span>look, look, look.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Atsumu’s is an angry red scar right beneath his clavicle as if someone had pointed a knife at him and carved in the mark of the other half of his soul. Red, he supposed back then, for the consuming love that was about to hit him when they met, for every possibility in the flames of a love they’d nurture. A romantic, perhaps, wasn’t he?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had laughed, nudging his twin with his shoulder, asking </span>
  <em>
    <span>what’cha think ‘bout the colors we have on our skins, Samu?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He had laughed when Osamu clicked his tongue, when he shook his head and shrugged with a low </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t care</span>
  </em>
  <span>, because of course he cared. Red for the consuming love that was about to hit him and light pink, almost beige, for the comforting hugs and the ease his twin was fated to. Red for the way his voice echoed loudly in the morning and light pink for the way his twin held him on a leash, their personalities so different but so similar at the same time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Funny</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he remembers thinking, </span>
  <em>
    <span>how both our marks read the same name.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It wasn’t funny.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re not soulmates.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu doesn’t remember how falling in love felt like. It wasn’t a slow descent, it wasn’t like he was dragged downhill by his hair as someone’s fingers locked with golden strands and pulled. It wasn’t sweet and warm, it wasn’t tranquil, it wasn’t still. It was everything Sakusa Kiyoomi meant, everything he hid behind a mask, every crinkle beside his eyes when he smiled, every giggle Atsumu managed to get out of him. Without grace and with the concrete below grazing his skin, Atsumu fell. There was blood coming from his nose and spit dripping down his chin as he struggled to breathe, as he clawed at his own skin because </span>
  <em>
    <span>no, no, no, no</span>
  </em>
  <span>, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sakusa Kiyoomi, insufferable prick, the very reason why Atsumu now finds it hard to sleep at night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re teenagers, they talk about their marks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Does it ever scare you? Your mark, I mean.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Atsumu remembers shrugging, his heart tied into knots as it plays around with the last bits of his sanity. When Sakusa Kiyoomi, insufferable prick, looks up at him, mask dragged down to his chin, Atsumu almost faints. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why would it scare me? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sakusa Kiyoomi, Atsumu found out during training camp, was the kind of person who didn’t like showing what he felt. He scrunched up his nose, shrugged and sighed all at once, </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a dark shade of pink. Doesn’t it mean suffering, the closest to red, the greater the suffering? Doesn’t it mean it’ll hurt? Why would I ever want someone who’s only going to hurt me, you know?</span>
  </em>
  <span> For once ever since Atsumu got his mark, he resented the sight of it in the mirror.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Loving someone, he finds out, is like clenching your nails into your palms so hard the skin breaks. It’s the light that blinds you so you have to look away. It’s the perfect set, the perfect spike and the smile he tries to gulp down when he looks at you after you score. It’s the silence that follows because maybe you spend too long staring at him, getting lost in every shade of green you never knew existed, every shade that swirls around as you blink once, twice, ten thousand times and it’s still not enough. Loving someone is the angry red that screams at you when you undress, reminding you that </span>
  <em>
    <span>it’ll hurt.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He remembers the day he saw Sakusa Kiyoomi’s mark for the first time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya, meaning shrine, stares back at him through the mirror, beads of sweat and water droplets circling it as Sakusa closes his eyes and sighs for a ridiculous amount of time. He shouldn’t have seen that, he shouldn’t have been there. Sakusa doesn’t know he’s there, doesn’t know he can see the dark pink carved in the soft flesh of his chest, right beneath his collarbone. Instinctively, Atsumu presses his fingers to the mark over his own chest, the angry red that makes him squirm in discomfort because </span>
  <em>
    <span>ah, of course.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re not soulmates, they never were.</span>
</p>
<p><span>Because Sakusa Kiyoomi’s </span><em><span>Miya</span></em><span> resembles the light pink that surrounds Miya Osamu’s </span><em><span>Sakusa</span></em><span>, not the angry red marking Miya Atsumu’s </span><em><span>Sakusa.</span></em> <em><span>How funny</span></em><span>, he laughs to himself when he’s finally alone in the bathroom, knees climbing up, up, up, until they’re glued to his chest and he can finally allow himself to sob. How funny, he thinks, that Sakusa Kiyoomi, insufferable prick, has devoured him so easily, has left him starving for his touch, for his voice, for everything he’ll never be allowed to have. He allows himself to cry tonight, allows himself to mourn the angry red over his chest, allows himself to mourn the love he’ll never get to have. Because Sakusa Kiyoomi is Miya Osamu’s soulmate, obviously, their marks painted with similar shades of pink, the ease and comfort that’ll come from loving each other fully.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Jealousy, Atsumu finds out, is an awful thing to feel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I met him,” he tells his brother one night. “I met your soulmate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu doesn’t do anything, doesn’t reply excitedly as Atsumu thought he would. “Did ya?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm,” he hums, chest hurting and nails digging into his palms to stop the tears from falling down. He can’t see him, they’re in the dark, the stars watching over them with a smirk, </span>
  <em>
    <span>they know something you don’t, Samu.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “He’s a prick. Good luck dealing with’im.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A snort, a ruffle of the sheets and a sigh. “I don’t wanna,” Osamu replies with a yawn. “Don’t care ‘bout that. Besides, ya know I like someone else already. Don’t wanna have anything to do with any other prick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Even if his name is forever staining yer skin?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu laughs that whole-hearted laugh of his and Atsumu hears his sheets ruffling again. There’s silence, silence, silence, and then Osamu’s face pops up in front of his face. He’s smiling, small dimple showing on his left cheek, opposite to Atsumu’s, and he slowly crawls under his blankets like he used to do when they were kids. He throws one arm over Atsumu’s stomach, eyeing him in the dark room they share. “Even if his name is forever staining my skin. We don’t hafta follow these marks, ‘Tsumu, ya know that. Sakusa-kun can go fuck himself for all I care.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t make it better, but it’s a bit easier to breathe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They play against Itachiyama, they play against Sakusa Kiyoomi and they laugh at the confused glances he sends the twins whenever they score, whenever they set and spike perfectly, whenever they bicker because </span>
  <em>
    <span>that set was sloppy </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>shuddup, you could’ve gotten that.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Atsumu feels that weird, sludgy and uncomfortably hot feeling spreading through his stomach when he sees them talking to each other post-match, when Sakusa laughs and his eyes crinkle, when Osamu laughs along with him. It looks right, he thinks, the two of them existing in perfect harmony, their laughs reverberating in perfect synchrony, in a way Atsumu could never hope to replicate.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Osamu’s soulmate and reason for Miya Atsumu’s unbecoming</span>
  </em>
  <span>: doesn’t it sound like a great title for his autobiography?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They exchange phone numbers, they text sometimes. Sakusa Kiyoomi has an exclusive ringtone on Osamu’s phone. They call each other sometimes, too. Atsumu would be lying if he said he wasn’t jealous, of his brother or his supposed soulmate, he couldn’t really tell. It sickens him sometimes, the laughter echoing from his phone, all around the four walls of their shared bedroom, the things they’re sharing and the things Atsumu won’t ever be allowed to know because it’s not his place to. He covers his ears and pretends the light coming from Osamu’s phone doesn’t keep him up all night, pretends his heart doesn’t clench inside his chest when Osamu calls his name in a whisper in the middle of the night, when he tells him </span>
  <em>
    <span>g’night, Kiyoomi, I’ll talk to ya tomorrow, yeah?</span>
  </em>
  <span> It’s maddening, alright, how badly Atsumu wants someone he knows he can’t have, how badly this scar over his chest burns with a desire Atsumu can’t get rid of, so gigantic it suffocates him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What happened to not following the marks, Samu?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It starts to make sense that they share a soulmate. It starts to make sense because they were once a single being, sharing a soul before they drifted apart in the womb, before they became different people with incomplete souls. It makes sense and Atsumu hates that it does; Atsumu hates that he was the one with the red angry mark and Osamu got to have him in such a simple, effortless way. Perhaps he was the twin that shouldn’t have been born, perhaps he was always meant to suffer, to stand there and watch as life unfolded right in front of his eyes, to stand there and never quite reach anyone, to stand there all alone until the end of time. He had his brother, sure, but even he decided he wanted to do something else with his life, something that didn’t necessarily include him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu starts hiding the fact that he has a soulmate, he starts hiding the fact that both he and his twin share the same mark, hiding the fact that he’s in pain every time he sees a picture of them, every time his brother texts him talking about the new menu and Sakusa Kiyoomi, unofficial taste-tester. It makes him want to cry, watching the two of them growing fonder and fonder of each other, watching as they slowly drift away from him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s better like this, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he tells himself, </span>
  <em>
    <span>it’s better if I can’t see them. It makes the pain go away.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It doesn’t, not really, but he keeps lying to himself hoping it will one day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then Sakusa Kiyoomi shows up again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He talks to him as if his name isn’t burning over Atsumu’s chest, as if his absence hasn’t turned Atsumu’s entire life upside down, as if his presence isn’t making him feel like he’s about to explode right this fucking second. He’s still moving like Atsumu remembers he did, he still jumps and hits his tosses perfectly. He still snickers and calls him </span>
  <em>
    <span>Miya</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but this time Atsumu doesn’t snicker and calls him a stupid nickname back. This time, he flinches and almost falls to his knees. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a Miya, and ever since he saw his family name staring back at him through the mirror from the place it stood against Sakusa Kiyoomi’s skin, he desperately wishes he wasn’t. Maybe if he wasn’t a Miya this pain in his chest would’ve been easier to deal with.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They don’t talk about their marks anymore, they’re no longer teenagers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu doesn’t ask him about his relationship with his brother, he doesn’t really want to know. Osamu calls him in the middle of practice one day and tells him he’s getting married, that he’s been in a relationship for a long time now, that now is finally the time to take another step. Atsumu feels like the whole world has come crashing down over his shoulders, like there isn’t enough oxygen in the planet for him, like he’s going blind and deaf and everything else all at once because </span>
  <em>
    <span>no, no, no, no, why didn’t you tell me, why did none of you tell me, no, no, no.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He should be happy for him. He should be celebrating and holding him in his arms in delight, chin resting over his shoulder as Osamu tries to run away because </span>
  <em>
    <span>ew, ew, ew, gross, get off.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He should be happy, but he’s not. He’s the farthest from happy as he could be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” he replies, voice choked and weird and with a hint of the unshed tears he refuses to let go of. His teammates are still around, he can’t allow himself to let them go now. “Okay. That’s, uh, great. Can we talk later?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure,” he almost chirps, his voice loud and bubbly and nothing like Atsumu remembers it being like. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No, no, no, no.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “I’ll text ya.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Click.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s getting married. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re getting married. Are they, really?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Insomnia grips at him, the dark circles under his eyes too big for his liking, too dark to be hidden by the cheap makeup he forced himself to buy. He looks hopeless as he watches Sakusa, Kiyoomi, Omi-kun, </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> Omi-kun jumping up, up, up, as he watches him spiking a ball and scoring a point, clenching his fist and letting a small sound of approval escape his throat. He’s not his, Atsumu has to remind himself, Atsumu was never his cup of tea, he remembers him saying. Too hot, too sweet, too </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything-he-didn’t-want</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Atsumu laughs to himself in the empty locker room, shakes his head and lets himself fall to his knees. He wonders what it would’ve been like to have been brewed to Kiyoomi’s taste, to be savoured by his tongue and known to his every pore. He wonders if he’s tasted Osamu so intimately like that, if he likes his taste and what is it that makes them so different.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not you,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Atsumu told him once. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It doesn’t mean anything if I’m not you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kiyoomi is standing there when he leaves the locker room, tears threatening to fall, heart climbing up his throat, and Atsumu forces himself to smile, forces himself to nod and turn away from him. He bites the insides of his cheeks, he closes his eyes and dares to take one and then two steps forward, leaving him behind, behind, behind. He has to, doesn’t he? The spot next to him was never his to stand on, after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m your soulmate, aren’t I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The world stops - or maybe that was just his heart. He blinks at the world outside, the trees and the stars that mock him from their spot up in the sky, he opens his mouth and a choked groan comes out. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, you are. I’ve been hopelessly yearning for you for years now, thanks for noticing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Or maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>no, you’re not. You’re my brother’s soulmate. The confusion happens when you have the same face, I guess. Aren’t you getting married soon? He just told me on the phone today, a few minutes ago actually. Congratulations!</span>
  </em>
  <span> As if.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘What makes ya say that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kiyoomi snorts. There’s a step and then two more. Atsumu’s muscles contract almost immediately, his throat closing in on itself and his tongue is suddenly too big for his mouth because he’s close, he’s close, he’s close, oh, god, he’s too close. “Well, it does make you wonder when you have a teammate’s name on your chest, doesn’t it? That and, well, the fact that I’ve seen my name on your chest like a brand countless times already.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There are plenty of Miyas and Sakusas in Japan, Omi.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu wants to punch himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There are,” he laughs, “but I don’t think I’d have any other Miya as my soulmate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bullshit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Utter bullshit, if Atsumu should ever reply. Because of course he would, of course he would, right? Why would he choose </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> when he already had his brother, when they were already such good friends, when they spent most of their time together? Why would he choose </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> when he could have the person Atsumu would never be? His mark was red, Osamu’s was not. Why would Kiyoomi ever choose angry red over soothing light pink? Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. It doesn’t matter that he’s a Miya because Kiyoomi’s Miya isn’t him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You would,” he whispers. “You have. You love him, don't ya? ‘Samu. I’ve been watching the two of ya and, honestly, Omi, who cares about a soulmate mark when you look at each other like that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t turn around, he doesn’t dare to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He told me yer getting married,” it’s choked, it’s weird and nothing like him and yet. Yet, he stands there and sobs, allows the tears to drip down, allows a shiver to rock him to his very core. “Congrats, Omi. I’ll be sure to make a beautiful speech for the two of ya.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Has anyone ever told you you’re really fast at jumping to conclusions?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kiyoomi touches him (he touches him!) and Atsumu shivers again, a pitiful whimper echoing in the four walls around them, a breeze coming through the open door as if embracing them for the last time before they fell, before a meteor came crashing down and annihilated them, before Kiyoomi said the words that would finally make Atsumu’s heart stop. Not that he would have said it, not that it would have mattered, he’s getting married and Atsumu will be the one standing behind him as they share their vows, as they kiss in front of him without realizing his heart is breaking in the process. He’s fine, really, he just needs some time to process things. Except that he’s not fine, he’s not fine at all and having Kiyoomi touching him is only making it worse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened to the no-touching rule, Omi?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It never applied to you,” he shrugs. “You should’ve noticed that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stop.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Please, stop.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods, softly, slowly, breath hitching in his throat because </span>
  <em>
    <span>please, let me go.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Kiyoomi takes another step and then another and another one until they’re face to face, until he can stare at the tears making their ways down Atsumu’s cheeks and jumping over the cliff towards the floor. He presses a thumb to his skin, cups his face in his hands and wipes away the tears that continue to fall, the tears caused by the pain over that stupid, horrible mark that branded Atsumu as </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> before he even had the choice to leave. It’s ridiculous, really, how pliant he is when Kiyoomi touches him, how his head tilts to the side, how he nuzzles Kiyoomi’s palm as if he’s a touch-starved stray cat who has never known warmth. How pitiful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s selfish, he wants to be selfish, wants to ask Kiyoomi to hug him and kiss him and take him home and do whatever else he wishes to do with him just because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But he doesn’t. He stands there and lets Kiyoomi caress his cheeks, lets him wipe away his tears and press their foreheads together and </span>
  <em>
    <span>ah, ah, ah, he’s warm.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t believe your brother didn’t tell you,” he laughs, the sound reverberating inside him, his knees suddenly weak because no one ever prepared him for the mess inside his head when Kiyoomi got too close. “He’s getting married and he still hasn’t told you about his relationship.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He didn’t want to hurt me,” he whispers back, “He never wanted to hurt me. I’m not him, I can never be him. It’s okay. He didn’t want to hurt me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu repeats it like a mantra, like a prayer, as if it would make it easier for his heart to handle the sudden emptiness inside his chest. Kiyoomi isn’t his, was never his, even if his name is written across his chest, even if it hurts to look at him in the locker rooms, when his own name shines so brightly beneath his collarbones, when he pretends he doesn’t notice Atsumu staring at him, when, when, when. He can’t help but wish he could’ve been enough for him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You love him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not a question.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not him. I’ll never be him. We have the same face, sure, but I’m not him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s smiling now, the urge to carve out his own eyes forcing him to carve his nails in his palms again. Kiyoomi laughs against his forehead, shakes his own head and sighs over Atsumu’s skin. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, the way he holds him hurts, the way his voice echoes inside him hurts, his presence hurts, his </span>
  <em>
    <span>warmth</span>
  </em>
  <span> hurts. It stings, it scorches, and for a second Atsumu almost believes he’s dead and this is the afterlife, this is where he’ll atone for every possible sin he’s ever comitted because this is pure torture at this point.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to be him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It comes as a punch to his gut. He shakes his head, he slaps Kiyoomi’s hands away, he sobs and nods, warmth unpleasantly flooding his insides as his knees give in, as his lips quiver and </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he doesn’t want to be here anymore. It’s maddening, the way his voice echoes and the way his hands fit so, so well in the curve of Atsumu’s jaw, cupping his cheeks and forcing him to look up. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>why does he look like that, why does he make it so hard for him to look away and go back, go back, go back. His name burns Atsumu’s skin, his touch lingers for longer than necessary and his eyes devour him whole. Atsumu lets him because, really, he’ll take anything he can get. He shouldn’t, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>god,</span>
  </em>
  <span> does he want to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to be him,” he repeats over and over again until he can no longer breathe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop saying that,” Atsumu whines, almost drops to his knees, but Kiyoomi holds him up. “Don’t do that, don’t keep me around if you already know how things are going to end up. Don’t just </span>
  <em>
    <span>touch</span>
  </em>
  <span> me like that, Omi, you’re so unfair.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He snorts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a smile on his face, silly and incredulous, and Atsumu almost wants to punch it out of him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stop looking at me like that, stop, stop, stop</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He can almost hear the humor in Kiyoomi’s voice when he sighs, when he chuckles and shakes his head, dark eyes focused on his every move as Atsumu desperately tries to run away from him. His breathing has become nothing but short bursts of longing, heavy darkness swirling around him as he struggles to keep his eyes open, to face him and pretend his heart isn’t shattering in the hollow palace his chest has become. Funny, he thinks, how none of the poems tell you loving someone is almost like wrapping a silk thread around your neck and jumping towards the abyss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He finds his way into a battlefield, he cries, he screams, he bleeds. And all of that while Kiyoomi holds him like he’s his own personal treasure, as if he’s scared Atsumu will slip through his fingertips if he doesn’t hold him still. Maybe he would, is what he wants to think, maybe he </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but he can’t. When Kiyoomi takes a step forward, when they’re close enough so that Atsumu can hear the shaky breaths he takes, so he can hear the loud echoes of his heartbeat, he realizes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa Kiyoomi is there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course he is, he’s always been there, just around the corner, at an arm’s length away. But it’s different now, the way his heart is beating along to the same rhythm as Atsumu’s, the way his eyes sparkle with something Atsumu isn’t entirely sure were there at all before. It’s different, the way he seems scared to touch him, the way his fingers tremble when he reaches up to brush a strand of hair out of his face. It’s different, the way his lips curl into a smile when Atsumu sighs, when Atsumu muffles a whimper and bites his bottom lip so hard he’s scared it’ll draw blood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s always been there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu isn’t a crier, he swears he’s not, but right now the tears wash over him like a tsunami over an entire continent. He’s washed away, Kiyoomi’s hand burning his skin, his fingers holding him like an anchor and Atsumu can’t bring himself to let go of him, can’t bring himself to take a step back and say goodbye. Not today, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please, let him have this, please, please.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Kiyoomi whispers, his voice sending shivers all the way up and then down his spine, again and again and again. Soon, his voice is all Atsumu can hear, all he can taste and feel; he’s drowning in Sakusa Kiyoomi and he wouldn’t have it any other way. “And you are more than enough for me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re a liar,</span>
  </em>
  <span> it’s what Atsumu meant to say. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re just saying that because I’m crying, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it’s what Atsumu meant to say. Instead, it came out as a mess of jumbled out words none of them could quite figure out, a cacophony Atsumu wasn’t entirely sure came out of him. Kiyoomi is still holding him in place, his thumb stroking circles over his cheek, his fingers intertwining with the hair behind his ear, his eyes focused on that almost unnoticeable mole he has under his lips, his eyelids fluttering down slowly, painfully slowly, lashes dark and long and curled and </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he shouldn’t be staring, but he is and he can’t stop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on,” Kiyoomi whispers again. “I’ll take you home. And then we’ll talk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu doesn’t want to, but he lets Kiyoomi take him by the hand (he’s holding his hand!) and drive him home. He lets him inside and Kiyoomi wraps his arms around Atsumu’s waist right after the door is shut, resting his head on Atsumu’s shoulders and taking a deep, deep breath before a shudder envelops both of them in the tightest of hugs (he’s hugging him!). It feels safe like everything does when Kiyoomi is around. It feels like he could melt and freeze at the same time, his blood boiling while his heart suddenly froze, his mind going at an impossibly high speed while his body remained stuck to the ground where he stood. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t move, he wraps his arms tighter around Atsumu’s waist and he lets him. He lets him sigh against the skin on his neck, he lets him whisper his name and a few other things Atsumu never thought he’d hear coming from his mouth. He gasps and sobs, he digs his nails into Kiyoomi’s flesh and holds him there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t think I’d have any other Miya as my soulmate. You don’t have to be him. You’re you. And you are more than enough for me. I can’t believe your brother didn’t tell you. He’s getting married and he still hasn’t told you about his relationship.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu allows himself to cry, he allows him to hold him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kiyoomi stands there, with his name burning over his chest, and he holds him tight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re soulmates, alright.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>you're free to come yell at/with me on <a href="https://www.twitter.com/aaIphard">twitter</a> (´꒳`)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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